Queen Bee
by ASLee1
Summary: It's predetermined that Sylvia as the eldest of three girls should be the plainest and most unfortunate while her youngest sister, Isobel, be beautiful and blessed. With the royal ball fast approaching, Sylvia heads off to market when the wagon is robbed by bandits. By fate, she survives. But only fate knows what else it has in store for her. (click for potentially cliche fluff)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**: There's a lot of stories I'm supposed to be working on - mostly over at Fictionpress - but, well, I just needed a little of fluff this weekend so I wrote some for myself. It does contain a lot of cliches and being a novelette (too long to be a short story), I didn't really take a lot of time to develop some scenarios. But I hope it'll work as some light, fun reading for you :)

* * *

"Hold the tray closer, Isobel, dear," Sylvia murmured.

The hat and veil of the young woman beside her obscured her features but the tray moved closer as requested. Sylvia grabbed a honeycomb with her metal tongs and placed it in the tray with the others before closing the lid to the box.

"If you continue to daydream out here, you're going to get hurt," she reprimanded.

The young woman, Isobel, folded the veil up over her hat as they drew a safe distance from the beehive boxes. "I can't help it. A harmony comes over me and I simply become carried away," Isobel pleaded.

Her sister, Sylvia, softened and sighed. "What are we going to do with you? With that attitude, you're only fit for royalty." She stroked her sister's hair and her sister smiled at her.

Isobel was the youngest of three sisters, Sylvia the eldest. Isobel was the fairest and Sylvia the plainest. However, it was the lay of the land. All tales decreed that the youngest would be the most successful and the fairest, whether male or female. All hopes and dreams of the family - and even the two elder girls - rested on Isobel. With beautiful blonde hair and blue eyes, a smooth heart-shaped face, and lithe figure, she was destined as many youngest: to marry for love and with it, fortune. Sylvia's duty as the eldest was to marry for duty or else, end up a spinster. The middle child, Pauline, would naturally do better than Sylvia but nowhere near as fortunate as Isobel.

Sylvia was four years older than Pauline and being the only child for four years, she had been allowed to blossom as she desired. As a result, Sylvia had many years afterwards being taught and encouraged to fight the fire that burned within her. Duty, she had learned although it seemed to be rather late for her. She was five years older than Isobel who was fifteen and fast approaching eligibility. Isobel already had several potential suitors and the royal ball was imminent. Sylvia was twenty with none, which made her prospects dull as a spinster.

It bothered her little. Her sense of duty demanded that she prepare Isobel for the ball. The honeycomb they collected would be used for both honey and for balms, both of which Sylvia was set to take to market. Any money raised would be used for a dress for Isobel.

When they arrived back at the cottage, their mother was there waiting with open arms. She drew Isobel in for a tight hug while Sylvia smiled on, resting the honeycomb tray on her hip. "Oh my house will be so empty without you," their mother told Isobel. Pauline had married a Duke's nephew in the fall. Sylvia's smile almost faltered but she caught it.

While Isobel went inside to be groomed for her potential future, Sylvia went around the house to an outdoor iron cauldron. The fire underneath it had already been stroked into life. She dumped the honeycomb in to begin her day's tasks. That fire she had been taught to suppress inside her raged in its cage but with a sigh, she reburied it. Sylvia was happy to do her duty for her sister. Not everyone can be the youngest and the same age as the crown prince. Her sister's fate was her first priority.

Beekeeping seemed natural to Sylvia. Her father - before he died - had told her the story of her birth. Later the same day she was born, she stopped breathing and everyone, even the midwife, assumed she had died. But then, through an open window flew a single bee and even though her father moved to shoo it and protect his mourning wife, it ignored him and landed on Sylvia's infant nose. Like magic, she began to breath and opened her eyes. She looked at her parents and smiled. Right then, her father had said, he knew she was meant for something special. That was, she was sure, until her sisters were born.

The next morning, Sylvia loaded up the two crates of balm onto a merchant's wagon, Frank Tennant. He had offered to take her to Gemrald's End, a trading town not far from here where there was to be a fair tomorrow. Not only would she potentially haggle better prices and turn a good profit, but her mother also hoped she might make a match. Mr. Tennant was a widower with a decent income who was reportedly lonely. Sylvia was not attracted to the match, not attached to the idea of charming him, but even in her fantasies, she had accepted the idea of love coming after marriage. She smiled kindly at him as he helped her load the crates and tried not to blush when he helped her into the wagon after them as the thought crossed her mind. He betrayed no awareness and took his seat at the front of the wagon next to his servant, bidding the horses into a walk.

Sylvia sat facing backwards, allowing her worn boots to hang over the edge. She laid one hand across the crates to try and keep them from jostling as the wagon navigated the bumpy road. With the other she waved to her mother and sister as they watched her leave, a smile on her face. If there was one joy she had from life, it was certainly the joy of being depended upon. Of knowing that she was the key to her family's happiness and every time she brought home money, it got Isobel one step closer to her bright future.

She dozed for quite some time, occasionally jostling herself awake, her head falling backwards. She woke finally with horrible pains in her neck and looked around. Mr. Tennant and his servant were unusually quiet. She spun around to look at the two of them who were as still as they could.

"What's going on? From here, it would seem as though the two of you have seen a ghost," she said.

Mr. Tennant held up a hand to silence her. The servant, a young boy of twelve, turned around and whispered to her, "there's men in the woods, Miss Darling. We're sure of it."

Sylvia's eyes widened as she held her breath. Clutching her shawl tighter over her shoulders, she looked around with wide, grey eyes examining the woods. She didn't notice a thing but it seemed to be the opposite from Mr. Tennant. He urged the horse pulling the cart to go faster, the wagon bouncing recklessly in response. If there was a rustling in the woods, she couldn't hear it over the sounds of the wagon. A wheel rolled over a rock and sent her bouncing, rolling from the cart into the road and off to the side into the brush. She let out a shriek as she fell off but it seemed to be lost to her companions.

Before she set off in pursuit, the servant's words stilled her as she laid there, half propped up, her legs scratched, hip and shoulder bruised, bonnet claimed from her brown hair by the thorns, and dress and shawl attached to the surrounding bush. Hearing nothing, she withdrew from the bush and dusted herself off. Sylvia detached her bonnet from the thorns only to throw it onto the ground in anger before submitting to misery as she began the long walk to Gemrald's End after the wagon.

It was at least two hours and almost dark before she came across the wagon, broken, ransacked, and discarded. She stifled a cry and rushed over, even though she was practically spent. Almost everything was taken except for a few broken crates. Her balms were gone. The food was gone. Her transportation was gone. Tears ran down her face freely but she could find no voice to utter her distress. There, by the side of the road, poorly hidden by brush were the dead bodies of Mr. Tennant and his servant, dragged there and laid side by side. She covered her mouth as she trembled, her teeth occasionally chattering against one another in her open mouth.

Sylvia scanned up and down the road, fighting the frantic feeling that had overcome her. Her inner determination and fire sent her back through the broken crates where she found half of a pear and trampled jerky. She forced herself to eat both even though she was sure she would vomit and trudged into the woods, where she knew she would have no choice but to spend the night.

Finding what she decided was the best locale she could hope to find, she settled herself down, trying to pretend she wasn't afraid. She tried to rub sticks together to create a fire as she had seen men do before. When it failed, she chucked them at a tree across from her with an angry scream. With nothing else to do, she huddled on her side against the earth and wished angrily that she had died with the merchant rather than suffer the awful fate that laid before her.

Sylvia didn't know she had fallen asleep until she woke up with patches of sunbeams on her face. She sat up, all out of tears, feeling relatively empty of all emotion when a bee buzzed nearby. She sat up and looked at it curiously as it hovered over the moss. She held out a figure as it flew closer. And as one expected of a butterfly, it landed on her figure and took a few precarious steps as though examining her. After a pause, it took flight again and gently flew away, leaving Sylvia to watch it go.

There was a reason Sylvia worked with bees. For some reason, they seemed to like her. She had never been stung by one. In turn, she respected them and cared for them, as odd as it sounded. It was the reason, her mother had joked one day without intending to sound cruel, that she was still alone.

She was startled from the sound of a gentle hooting. Sylvia's head snapped up and in the direction of the owl sounds. Although it was in the opposite direction of the road, she just felt as though the sound might guide her to water, which her body desired desperately - aside from the need to relieve herself. Another bird sound she didn't recognize, the sound of a raven, replied to the hooting and she paused at the oddity. She noticed the gentle conversing and its peculiarity. She brought her breathing shallow although the sound of her own heartbeat filled her ears and throbbed all the way in her fingertips. She tried to tread carefully forward, her eyes scanning for any sign of trouble.

But Sylvia had never been prepared for the wilderness. A man appeared before her. She shrieked and backed up against a tree, her hands splayed on its bark as though if she pressed her back against it hard enough, she might melt into it. Another man leapt down from the trees and stood just a whiles away, observing. The man before her with black hair and brown eyes looked every bit menacing, his hand casually on a dagger at his waist. With a pointed nose, high cheekbones, and a square face he looked every bit dangerous and cunning. He stepped forward with a knowing smile until he was a little closer than an arm's reach away.

He reached out a hand towards her face as though he meant to touch it. Out of instinct, her hand whipped up and slapped it away, her eyes never leaving his. He laughed and drew out his dagger, stroking it with his free hand, the one she had slapped. "Tell me," he said, "what should we do with you? Trespassing is a criminal offense."

"Let me go," she croaked. She felt shocked and embarrassed at the sound of her own voice even though she felt no reason to. She cleared her throat and angled up her chin, trying to look brave. "My transportation was ransacked and has left me stranded. Since the fault is not mine, I should be granted safe passage."

"Oh…" he said, not looking entirely sorry as he cast a knowing glance over his shoulder at his companion. "I do apologize. That wasn't your husband, was it?" He looked her up and down, measuring her.

"No," she said firmly. "My family is… at Gemrald's End. They'll be waiting for me. We'll make do without the profits just to know I'm safe. The merchant offered me transportation."

"Okay, well regardless of whether I believe you, this is where you offer money in exchange for your safety."

She trembled. "I… don't have any money."

"Oh dear me," he said, examining his fingernails, picking out the dirt with the dagger. "I'm afraid that just won't do. You'll have to come with us."

She winced as he grabbed her arm and forced her forward. She stumbled but found her feet, forced to trudge beside him. The trip to his camp was silent, broken only by the jeers of the camp's men. She was then unceremoniously tossed into a tent and commanded to stay there on pain of death.

When the man returned with food hours later, Sylvia propped herself up onto her elbows from the thin cot on which she laid. "Why feed me if you're just going to kill me?"

"Is that what you'd like? To go ahead and get it over with?" he asked, sitting down beside the cot.

She steeled her gaze and tried not to look nervous. While her heart was about to jump out of her chest, the rest of her was calm. She had accepted that she would die. She felt only anger in that it was being prolonged, a torture in and of itself. "If that is what you are going to do, then yes."

He placed a hand on the other side of her and leaned over her. "And if I had other plans?"

She bit her lip and tried to fight the tears building in her eyes from his suggestion. "To some things, death is preferable."

She fought a torrent of emotions as he pulled a pin from her hair, already madly trying to escape the updo it had been secured in the day before. Her eyes traveled to his dagger, still on his hip. He laughed and sat up, placing the tray in his lap. "There are only so many things a pretty girl is useful for."

Sylvia had been plain all her life. She didn't know what response he was looking for by it. If he was still suggesting her body, her mind wasn't changed on that. "If you're not going to kill me and you're not going to let me go, then let me earn a pay. And not like _that_," she said, eyeing him up and down to signify that "that" meant with her body.

"Well, go on," he said, waving his hand as he began to eat the food she thought had been for her.

"Well… I can cook and I can clean. …And, well, I can learn to do almost anything else."

He looked up at her from the tray, eyebrows raised. "Like killing?"

She swallowed hard at the idea, her eyes wide. She took a deep breath. "With conditions."

"Such as?"

She pursed her lips, not sure if she was getting her way or he was simply amusing her. She suspected the latter. "Well, if robbing is what you do and I shall be a party to it, then my cut shall be sent to my sister."

"Your cut would be your life, which I don't qualify as shippable to your sister in pieces …unless you mean limbs."

That fiery, unruly nature inside her didn't like reading between the lines. It wanted what it wanted and her nerves set it free. "My work is worth gold. So you _will_ give me gold. And you _will _send it to my sister. She is destined for greatness. And I _will_ get her a worthy gown by the time of the Royal Ball."

"Oh you will?" He was still amused, not seemingly affected in the slightest by her change of emotion. However, there was something to it, something affected by what she said, although not necessarily by how she said it."Well, we'll see in the morning, buttercup. Here, eat this." He offered her the half-eaten tray. Although it still had a good piece of bread and half an apple left and her stomach growled ferociously, she refused. He shrugged and laid down beside her onto his stomach, using one arm to pin her to the cot. No matter how she pushed, she couldn't move his arm. She huffed and laid there until he seemed to truly be asleep but no matter how hard she tried, she still couldn't get it to budge.

She hated the indecency of the situation. She hated how close he was to her, how improper it was for his arm to be draped across her middle. And she hated that the way he smelled -his face only inches from hers- didn't repulse her like it should.


	2. Chapter 2

When she woke up, she let out a long sigh before her memory flooded her senses and she bolted up. "Easy now."

Sylvia turned to see the man sitting on a chair facing the cot, his feet crossed and rest beside her. That irritating smile he always wore beamed down on her.

"You seemed pretty happy to be here a moment ago. What happened?" he asked, playing dumb.

"I beg to differ," she retorted. "It might improve if you agree to my offer."

"Well, buttercup, I'll give it some thought and we'll see what happens. Would you like to come out and let the men leer at you so we can begin?"

"My name is Sylvia Darling," she said. "And I would prefer that they didn't leer."

"As would I, Sylvia, but leer they will. Outlaws tend not to have relations, if you get my meaning. If you are too offended by buttercup to call me by the same name, you'll just have to call me Foxface as everyone else does."

She blinked in disbelief of the mockery, the idea of calling him buttercup. Even more so was her surprise at his name, even if it was a pseudonym. "Fine," she said firmly as she accepted his hand to rise to her feet.

He pulled back the curtain and waved her out of the tent. She found herself irritated at herself for beginning to tremble as she noticed all the dirty and occasionally hungry eyes on her. She wanted to seem firm and resolute - powerful even - and was failing horribly.

Foxface came out behind her and stood beside her, placing a hand on her back between her shoulder blades. "Everyone, this is Sylvia," he said simply. "She's going to learn how to fight today. I hope everyone will be most encouraging." He looked at her before turning back to the men. "And respectful."

He gave her a slight push to start walking before taking stride ahead of her. The men fell in behind and she had to walk faster to keep a distant between her and the men while keeping up with Foxface. For dirty outlaws, the camp seemed well organized. All the tents were in tight lines. Laundry lines were together on one side - although unused. And by a field clearly intended for training, with its targets, was a small weapons rack organized in suit.

He stopped before it and gestured to it with a hand. "Take your pick."

All the men stopped to watch as she examined the rack, without a clue for most of them. She recognized the sword, obviously, although didn't understand the differences in sizes: the hand and a half, the short sword, claymore, and the long sword. There was also a couple longbows, a recurve bow, and even a small one-handed crossbow. There were throwing knifes wrapped together in hide and daggers. But of all the weapons, she picked the least daunting: the spear.

Foxface tilted his head back and forth, his arms crossed. "Alright… Well, you've picked a javelin, made for throwing." It sounded like a bad thing. She frowned. He pointed down field at a target. "Give it a throw then."

She bit her lip and tested the weight of it in her hand. Nervously, she scooted over to get in what felt like a better position from the target. Bringing her hand back over her head, she swung her arm forward and released the spear. It hardly went more than a few feet before hitting the grass horizontally. The men all laughed and even Foxface's grin was wider.

"Pick again," he said.

She was not so easily defeated, she told herself. She picked another spear from the rack and then realized how much longer it was.

"That spear's for combat," he said with a short nod - not one of approval. He pointed to a boy of fourteen from the crowd and then snapped the finger over to the field. The boy dutifully picked a weapon off of the rack, a sword. Without a word, Foxface pursed his lips, snapped the sword from him and pressed a simple stick into his hands.

The boy scowled but took the stick over to the field and faced Sylvia, spreading his feet into a fighting position. She held the spear somewhat slack at her side, making sure to direct the pointy end at him. Couldn't they tell she had never fought before? Was this all just for jest?

The boy got tired of waiting and spun towards her, bringing the stick down towards her like a sword. The spear dropped from her hands. Her mouth dropped open in shock as she watched it hit the ground.

Foxface scowled. "Again."

Sylvia poorly concealed her disappointment and picked the spear back up, holding it tighter. Again, she stood there and the boy was forced to charge once again. Sylvia shrunk back this time, holding up the spear to protect her body. He brought the stick down on the spear shaft which vibrated from the blow in her hands. Although she managed to keep a hold of it from the blow, she dropped it from the vibrations as they began to numb her hands. But the boy was already in mid-strike. She shrieked as she looked up and saw it coming. She wasn't sure how she managed but after she cringed and reopened her eyes, she found she had rolled herself away from his blow.

She wasn't the only one surprised but she didn't have time to ponder. "Your spear," Foxface said behind her, annoyed.

She searched the grass, so disoriented, she wasn't sure where she had come from. The boy had backed away first to regroup from his own surprise and also to let her gather herself. She grabbed it clumsily and held it again in her red hands. Foxface tutted under his breath as she set herself up to repeat the same mistake. He came over and stood behind her, grabbing her by the elbows and adjusting her hold. He used his feet to sweep her own feet into the correct position. He held out a hand to the boy who surrendered the stick. Foxface set himself opposite Sylvia.

"Now I'm going to move slowly. I expect you to fight back. After all, at the end of the day, I might still kill you." He brought the stick straight down. She just held the spear there. "No, bring it up. You want to block with enough force to attack back."

She did as he asked but still without the effect he wanted, not managing a counter-attack. "When you use the side of the spear, point the tip towards your foe."

She wanted to tell him it was pointless. But she also didn't want to die. After her hands burned so much, she was certain she couldn't hold it any longer, he put the stick down. "I suppose you can do something else for the remainder. I recall you offering to do laundry?" She frowned but said nothing. "Well, I'll show you the creek."

A bunch of men took it upon themselves to take off their shirts and pile them in her arms. She could only look on dumbfounded until he took her by the crook of her arm and led her.

He sat her by the creek and handed her a rough bar of soap. "Well, here you go. Don't get carried away. They'll be watching."

There he left her with no choice but to do so, the soap made with lye burning her hands even more. As the sun began to set, he came to collect her and took her back to the tent. He sat her down on the cot and returned with food. This time she ate willingly while he opened a jar he had brought and sniffed it. He took her hands in his and rubbed the cream on them. She studied his face, that flutter of a feeling she had almost entertained with Mr. Tennant beginning to blossom. But then she smelt the cream. "That's mine!" She declared.

He looked up, shocked. "Excuse me?"

"You took that from the wagon! I made that!"

He examined the jar of balm. "Then you'll appreciate the irony of being able to use it on yourself. I thought you were just on that wagon for transportation home."

She huffed and looked away, trying to keep herself from crying. Why did crying have to come almost naturally? "I was. But it was to sell my balms for my family. I'm the only one who takes care of my family until my sister achieves her destiny."

"Well if that's the case, you'll have to accept the balms in exchange for your life. You won't make any money until you help us …'earn' some."

She put her head in her hand. "The ball's in two weeks."

"Then work hard and we'll see what happens."

She frowned and pushed the tray away unfinished. She rubbed her hands together and enjoyed the balm while feeling the loss of income all over again.

"Well if that's how you feel, there's nothing I can do to change it. And my rules are finite, unfortunately."

He finished her tray and settled down next to her.

"I'm not ready," she stated.

"Well, that's too bad," he said and closed his eyes.

She tried not to ponder too hard what her family was doing right now. She wondered - and doubted - if Pauline could offer anything in her place.

* * *

After a week, Foxface finally declared her ready to go on a "hunt". She gathered her spear and the apparel required: pants and blouse in place of a dress.

"Your weapon is for close range," he explained. "Your job is to stay in the background until we've solidified the situation."

They stalked the woods quietly, Sylvia's light form making the most noise. The men disappeared into brush and trees, blended into the very background of the woods. Sylvia, herself, was made to stay far enough away not to be spotted and ruin it.

She could hardly hear the dialogue although she identified Foxface's cocky, confident voice as he asserted authority over his victims. Shouts ignited and it shook her to her core. She wasn't a violent person but somehow she felt the need to be closer, to see what was going on and maybe do something about it. Not that she knew what she was going to do.

It looked to be a family and their little boy. However, guards were bursting from the covered wagon, armed to the teeth. The child was thrown out of the way, knocked unconscious as he fell against the wagon. Foxface and his men charged the guards with equal fury. The situation certainly wasn't solidified as the road became a battlefield. The most helpful she could be was to simply watch.

However one of them spotted her, pointed, and approached. She could do nothing but hold the spear as she was taught. But killing someone wasn't something she was ready for. She blocked, knocking aside the guard's sword, and kicked him hard in the groin, sending him to the ground. One of the outlaws came over and ran their sword through him for her. Then she was stuck in the fray, fighting off attackers.

Eventually, worn out mentally and physically, she was caught from behind, a blade across her throat. She froze, tears springing to her eyes. She exhaled and took a risk, jabbing him in the side with the butt of her spear, kicking him with the opposite foot. He loosened his grip and there was the familiar sound of blade through flesh. As he sunk behind her, his hand was still over her shoulder, blade near her neck. It cut as she sunk, sliding diagonally down her neck, over her collarbone and then back up and over her shoulder as it slid off. She tell out a cry and immediately inhaled sharply, light-headed and shocked from the almost mind-numbing pain. She sunk to her knees, dropping the spear and grabbing her throat with the other hand in pain. The cut was not terribly deep but it was warm and burned beneath her fingers. She looked off towards the distance, wondering if this meant she was going to die. Hands enveloped her, a mouth in her ear, but everything was fading, her hearing so muffled she could comprehend the words. She hoped it was nice, wherever it was she was going.

* * *

When she opened her eyes, she was looking up at the top of the same familiar tent. She exhaled and moved to prop herself up. She gasped and a hand flew to her throat as the pain came back, very real.

"Whoa!" Foxface exclaimed, sitting to attention in the chair beside her. He scooted off it to the floor next to the cot. "It's only been a day. No reason to get up. Your first real fight and your first real injury. You deserve all the rest you can get."

She shook her head at him to which he simply placed a hand on her forehead as though he would force her to stay still if she resisted. "That was the tax collector's wagon. We made a good profit. Your sister will be getting her dress, don't worry."

She breathed a sigh of relief and let that happiness fill her, turning her face from him as she smiled.

He leaned over, pressing his lips lightly to her cheek. She turned her head back so that her eyes met his. She released a shaky breath as her eyes couldn't help but wander to his lips whose touch made her cheeks burn red. He licked his bottom lip and then gently brought his lips to hers. Some part of her seemed to crack or explode, her whole body set into a glorious blaze. She kissed him back although she could hardly raise her head without pain. He pulled back, his hands on the cot placed just above her shoulders to hold him up. He leaned forward and kissed her again, shorter this time, before sitting back.

"You need to get some rest," he said as though it meant nothing. His eyes found hers again, softly, fondly. "I'll be here when you wake up."

He made her lay there for two more days, using a balm that may have been hers as medicine, gently rubbing it on her cuts. It burned whenever it touched the openings but he always shushed her, declaring how well it was working. But he didn't try to kiss her again.

Sylvia's mind, left to its own devices, could only ponder things so much. "I'd… I'd like to start a hive," she told him one day, her back aching from how long she had laid in that position. She turned her head to the side so that she could look at him, ignoring the pain she felt in her neck as she did. The pain was dulling, easier to deal with. "You know, I could… use the honey to make balm, drinks, and other things."

"We could help you with that," he said casually. "I could have some of the boys build you what you need."

She nodded. "I'd like that."

"But I won't," he added, pointing a finger at her, "if you get too worked up. You have to promise to stay perfectly still when I tell you this."

She looked at him questioningly. "Okay …uh, I promise."

"We're leaving tomorrow so you have to be in good shape. You can't go messing it up now or you'll ruin the whole trip."

"Leaving? Trip?" She asked.

"Yes, now stay still. I have to leave you. I have a lot to do for tomorrow."

She nodded although hated the torture he left her in to wonder exactly what that meant.


	3. Chapter 3

"Alright, sit up slowly," he said the next morning.

She did as he asked although her curiosity was killing her. She placed her hand in his and let him help her to her feet.

"We've got a long way to go. You'll have to make do with my storytelling for entertainment on the way there. But if you're not ready, we won't go."

Sylvia shook her head, tired of laying on that cot. "No, I'm ready."

"Alright then," he said, placing a hand on her back as he guided her out. "Let's see if our siblings hit it off."

Her mouth dropped open as she stared at him in shock. He continued to look straight ahead and offered nothing more until they left camp. As they made it clear of camp and into the wilderness - although he certainly seemed to know where he was going - he looked back at her and her expression and laughed. "Oh that's right. I promised you story time.

"My real name is Tiberius, son of Marcus and Octavia Quillo. My mother died when I was five and my father remarried when I was seven. I was eight when Edwin was born. I didn't accuse my step-mother, Queen Rebekah, of sorcery until I was twelve. My father refused to believe me; my step-mother accused me of being wild; and so I left the capital, disowned by my father, leaving my half-brother as heir. I stole from the wrong man, became his slave until I learned all I could from him, killed him, and came to the woods to make my living in my new trade. To be wild, as my step-mother put it.

"You see, Sylvia Darling, fate isn't predisposed to make choices for us. We eldest must make our own."

His hand left her back to take her hand and help her over a fallen tree. "You mustn't look so shocked. You know my charm had to be born somewhere. Being sure of yourself is an act any can attempt but the best actors have been practicing confidence since infancy."

When she didn't voice any of the scrambled thoughts and questions in her brain, he continued. "You must be wondering if I gave it all up why we're heading back. I must confess I've been against my step-mother from the beginning. And given this ball where the prince may marry _any _eligible young woman, I find myself concerned for a secret ploy. Fate demands that the ball be for nobility and a commoner slips in, not that they be openly invited. Your sister may not be waltzing towards fate but doom. If that's the case, I plan to use the ball to expose my step-mother and free my father - and the kingdom - from her spell.

"Well, we're here. Weasel? Jackal?"

They arrived at a run-down cottage with an equally run-down barn. Two men appeared, lithe, scruffy, and malnourished. But their clothing were similar and the names revealed them as allies. "Right this way," one of them said, gesturing the direction with his head before turning to lead them.

They led her into a small room, small enough that standing in the middle, she could touch each wall. They drew in a dress and handed it to it, large and billowing. She could only see Foxface because he shoved his head around the dress. "Don't come out until you put it on and don't sit down and smudge it."

With that, he closed the door and left her to admire the orange dress with gold-colored embroidery and beading. It took her a couple minutes before she was even able to look away and take off her current clothes. It was one of the most beautiful things in her life that she was practically mesmerized by it. Even stepping into it, she was shocked by its sleek, silky smoothness, the foreign feeling sending shivers up and down her body. Above all, she couldn't stop blushing at the idea of herself in such a dress. Finally, she swallowed her excited, albeit poorly, and excited the room. Foxface dressed in a fancy dress coat of deep blue with gold trim and a gold-cream waistcoat underneath slid behind her and laced up her dress firmly. Then, he held out a hand into which one of the men pressed a wet cloth. He tucked his other hand under her chin to hold it firmly and wiped the cloth across her face until he was satisfied.

"We'll… well, we'll figure out the hair on the way. Come. Our stolen carriage awaits."

Sylvia hated admitting it to herself but for what she was about to partake in, she found the stolen carriage worth it. The clothes she didn't know if they were bought or also stolen but found she didn't care. Although she did resent the giddy feeling she felt as she was handed into the carriage. This was for the safety of her sister and realm, he had told her. She needed to remind herself of that. It wasn't for her personal enjoyment.

She both distracted herself and reminded herself of her low-born status by addressing the matter of her hair. She tried several braided styles until she achieved his approval. Satisfied, her arms aching from being up so long, she placed the last provided pin in her hair to hold it in place and then let her arms fall to her lap.

"When we arrive, you're to seek out the prince and be my distraction while I seek out my step-mother. If she's got him under her magical thumb, he may be summoned when I confront her."

Sylvia nodded in compliance. "I can do that."

They stepped out of the carriage after the ball was well underway. He handed her out and led her up the steps, guards on each tenth step. As they walked through the large doors, he brushed his lips across her knuckles and released her hand to send her on her way as he left to go "hunting". She stared in awe as she walked down into the ballroom, all the beautiful gowns around her and even the less-fortunate gowns of girls who had come anyway, in hopes that it would be their destiny that came to pass. Towards the middle, the women and men alike had spread out to make room for the prince dancing and a sparse few other couples. Sylvia couldn't help but scan the crowd for her sister. Isobel if she was here would have surely found her way up she. She unfortunately wasn't the girl he danced with but Sylvia still clung to the certainty that if he saw Isobel, he'd choose her.

As the dance ended, he bowed to his partner and with a gesture, set her free to the crowd. He already moved on that he didn't notice her dismay. Or perhaps because he already knew what expression would lay there. He looked her direction and stared as he made his way over. Sylvia smiled at her foolishness. Her sister must be in the crowd behind her. She stepped aside to look behind her into the crowd, searching for who had caught his eye. Disappointed, she turned back to see if he had changed course. He arrived in front of her with a charming smile and held out a hand. Sylvia caught her refusal in her throat and curtsied. She would do her part as bidden.

The dance was hardly intimate, their hands nearly together but not touching as they circled, her other hand holding up the skirt of her dress to aid her movements. However, it was enough that their conversation was theirs alone.

"You certain are happy, Your Highness," she said innocently. "You've already danced with her, haven't you?"

"Who?" he asked with equal innocence and curiosity.

"The one," she breathed, enjoying the romantic ideal that occurred in her mind.

"And what if this happiness is a new feeling entirely?"

Her breath caught in her throat. But the part of her that was already claimed was actually more ruffled. He was a bit coy, a bit smug, rather like his half-brother. She forced herself to smile as though helpless. "Really?" Cleverness and quips had never been her strong suit.

Something glinted in his eyes. "Would you care to step out onto the balcony with me?"

"Why, I've always longed to see the city from the palace," she declared, secretly wanting to stab herself for how enchanted she sounded. Maybe because there was a part of her that didn't have to act, just embrace.

She placed her hand on his and let him lead her away from the dance floor to the private balcony. "It is quite beautiful," she admitted, looking down into the city. It twinkled back at her, excited for her participation, it seemed.

"I would be very delighted to give you an even better view," he said, all charm. "Just behind this door beside us are stairs up to another balcony."

"That would be wonderful." Getting him away from the party was something Foxface - no, Tiberius - had wanted, right? Or did he simply mean dancing as the distraction? Oh, she didn't know. This would just have to do.

He opened the door and ushered for her to go first. As they reached a door near the top, he pointed to it. "That's the one. Go ahead and open it."

She looked back at him with a smile, looking for his reassurance. He gave it and she first removed the bar and then opened it. First, she noticed how dark the room was. Then she noticed the eyes looking up at her, two pairs. And one… "_Isobel_!"

Two hands shoved her in forcefully and the door was shut behind her, the bar on the door sliding into place. She screamed in rage and turned against the door, pounding and pulling on it. A hand rested on her shoulder. "It's no use, Sylvia." The voice was completely calm and accepting. Sylvia shook her head as she pulled her sister in for a hug. "What are they going to do to us?"

"Well, not hold us for ransom," the third girl said although she did not move.

Sylvia scowled as she released her sister, although in the dim lighting no one could see. "The queen is a sorceress so something dark, I'm sure. We can't sit back and give up. We have to fight, to live." She shook the door again to no avail.

As she moved around, she noticed that the closet she assumed they had been shoved in - they were all huddled near the door after all - was actually a lot longer and larger than she expected. Sylvia tried to display confidence as she walked towards the other side but ended up having to use the wall as a guide until her eyes adjusted. The door on the other end when she tried it was also locked. The door was guarded by two empty coat of arms. She grabbed the ceremonial spear, more of a halberd, and placed a slipper-ed foot against the armor as she tore the spear from its grip. She could potentially use it to pry the door open. She had no idea if it would work but she wasn't ready to doubt herself just yet. Some good she would be if she turned into a victim herself.

She screamed at the door when her spear wasn't working as she planned but didn't give up. As she continued to work, the other two girls made it across the room to her. Isobel leaned a shoulder against the wall beside her sister, looking for all the world at peace.

"Mother said a fairy godmother must have delivered it when this dress showed up at our door. But I knew it was from you. When you never came home, I didn't lose hope. I knew something bad couldn't happen to you while you were trying to help me."

"Well, let's hope your logic pays off," Sylvia grunted as she wiggled the spear lodged between the door and the wall. There was the clank of wood and she paused. Releasing the spear with one hand, she tried the door and it gave way. She pointed to the two girls and gestured for them to follow her out. It led into a larger room, the walls lit with torches.

The three girls shrieked as a large brazier in the middle of the room caught flame and fully illuminated the room like daylight. Beside it stood a beautiful, tall woman with dark red hair, blue eyes, and a sleek gown without the fashionable hoops that adorned the girls' dresses.

"You're earlier than I expected," she said, her voice honey-coated and as sleek as her dress.

Tiberius' body laid crumpled only a few feet from the woman, presumably the Queen Rebekah. Sylvia covered her mouth and muffled a cry.

"Oh, he wasn't with you, was he?"

Sylvia brought up her spear and held it in front of her. "You'll let us go."

"No…" she said shaking her head. "I was given the impression none of you ladies would mind terribly much if I just… ate your hearts. Take a few years off, bolster some strength, that sort of thing."

"Oh we mind," Sylvia seethed. She took small steps towards the woman as she walked around the brazier.

"Are you going to kill me?" Queen Rebekah mocked.

Sylvia pushed past the startled feeling and lunged. Rebekah waved her hand and sent Sylvia flying back. She crashed on the hard stone ground but the pain racing through her back and shoulders was nothing as she saw the queen approach her sister. Sylvia forced herself to her feet although it felt like too long and clutched the spear in her hand. She edged towards the queen determined. Although it was not made for such, she arched her hand back and threw it. The queen moved her hand towards Sylvia, turning as the spear sailed harmlessly over her shoulder.

She pointed at Sylvia and snapped her finger. Ropes materialized and tied her hands together in front of her. Sylvia was forced to her knees while the other two girls crumpled freely. Rebekah turned to a tall, thin dais and retrieved a small simple wooden bowl. She held the bowl in both hands with a look of reverence. Slowly she stepped towards the third girl who Sylvia had never spoke to. She knelt before her and kept holding the bowl in front of her. She began to chant. It didn't seem like anything terrible was going to happen. It seemed like a joke, almost, that Sylvia might have laughed if she hadn't been magically been thrown across the room and then bound. And then the magic kicked in. The girl went rigid although her body did not collapse. The body began to seize and it appeared to be stuck as though suspended, never falling over even though it should have. Then, the girl began to scream. The skin over her chest seemed to peel off, to rip away to allow the eager heart to leap forward into the bowl. Once it was settled in the bowl, the magic left the girl and the body collapsed.

Isobel began to sob uncontrollable, her terror breaking through the shock. Rebekah turned to her and rising to her feet, began to approach her slowly. A smile curved at the corners of her lips.

"Don't be afraid, child. As you see, it doesn't take long."

Sylvia, who had spent the whole time struggling against her bonds, was still hopelessly stuck. Even still, she flailed against her bonds. She couldn't watch her sister die.

"No!" She said finally, desperately. "You have to take me first!"

It wasn't because she had some nasty trick up her sleeve. She had nothing. But not only couldn't she watch her sister die but she couldn't afford to give up hope that if she could stall, her sister might somehow be saved.

The Queen's smile was truly wicked. "You have earned the best prize, my dear. To go last. The order is predetermined."

Sylvia grunted in anger, trying futilely against her bonds. Then a glint of light shined in her eye. She looked over to see Tiberius rising to his feet by the brazier unsteadily. He had already spotted her and was making his way over. She shook her head violently, her lips pursed. She tried her best to point with her head at the Queen who was beginning to kneel in front of her sister. He nodded and reached into the brazier while Sylvia bit her lip to keep from voicing a cry. He withdrew a torch from the fire to Sylvia's disbelief. She could only assume the Queen had already disarmed him as she had her. He crept up and set the Queen's gown on fire, but continued to push the burning end into her back.

The Queen's concentration broke, she came to with a glass-shattering shriek of rage. The bowl clattered to the ground although the heart magically kept its place. She spun on him and the fire died on her gown. Sylvia could see, however, the large spot that had been burned away and the black charred skin. Although the rope the Queen had summoned was real enough, Sylvia no longer found herself compelled to kneel. She crawled over to her sister and began to untie her ropes while Tiberius distracted the Queen.

"I see I have to show you what a nuisance you really _are_," the Queen declared, stretching out her hands towards Tiberius as he backed away to Sylvia's spear.

Sylvia's attention was riveted on what the Queen was doing, frozen, that she didn't even notice she had finished her sister's bonds enough to ask her to start on hers. And her sister was too afraid to untie her without prompting, keeping her hands in her lap even after her sister's grip slackened. As things began to materialize at the Queen's fingertips, Sylvia could only scream, "No!" once more in determination it would materialize her demands. Able to move, she placed herself, still tied, between Tiberius and the black, buzzing mist spewing from the Queen.

She squinted her eyes as it came, fearing the pain more than the actual dying part. But the buzzing slowed, hovered even. She opened her eyes to find herself in a cloud of bees. It should have bothered her but it didn't. She had never been stung by a bee in her whole life. And she had spent a lot of time with them. Sylvia couldn't help but laugh, startling everyone in the room. Drunk on this weird sensation of relief, she walked slowly towards the Queen. She didn't even care to think what would happen. She didn't think at all. She didn't even really pay attention to the fact that the cloud moved with her.

Rebekah was too startled herself to do much until the cloud began to touch her and sting her. She let out cries of pain and annoyance and began to use her magic to swat them, startled. Sylvia came close enough and managed to grab one of the Queen's hands in her own. The Queen tried to free her hand and simultaneously fight off the bees.

"I feel so bad for you," Sylvia said serenely. "You look so tired. As busy as bees."

Sylvia's words seemed to freak out Rebekah as much as the bees. Her eyes wide and frantic, she began trying desperately to pull her hand out of Sylvia's firm grip. But as Sylvia stood there, the full cloud of bees converged on Rebekah until Sylvia could only see her hand. She released Queen Rebekah as she let loose one last terrifying scream and collapsed. Just as she collapsed, the bees began to disperse so fast, some of them must have disappeared.

Tiberius edged up behind her. "What the…? Can she die from that?"

Sylvia blinked as though coming to. She looked over her shoulder and felt relief at seeing him. She shook her head. "I shouldn't think so. They looked like honey bees to me."

He knelt beside Rebekah and felt for a pulse. "Unless her heart gave out," he said in a curious tone looking up at her.

"All I know is that as much as I love a pretty dress, I think I'm done with hoops," Sylvia commented, mentally exhausted. She looked down at the hoops under the dress, their metal skewed from the evening's events and jutting up so that her hands could rest on it. The other end was bent in turn that with every step she had made, it would bump and rub against the back of her thighs, even with a petticoat on.

He let out a laugh of relief and untied her hands.

"…Sylvia?" A weak voice sounded.

She turned and saw her sister still sitting on the floor, her legs tucked beside her, her hands still limp in her lap. She came over and offered a hand down. Isobel took it gingerly and let her sister help her up.

"There won't be any more balls, will there?" Isobel asked.

Sylvia petted her sister's head. She seemed so disoriented and shocked that Sylvia really felt more sorry for her sister than compassionate. She shook the feeling from herself and hugged her sister. "No, Isobel. You don't have to go to any more."

"What's going to happen to Prince Edwin?"

Sylvia was puzzled over the question. She looked over her shoulder back at Tiberius who offered no solution. She turned back to Isobel. "I'm not sure."

She took Isobel's hand and walked her over to Tiberius and took his hand with her other hand. They both walked with her dutifully as she led them back to her mother's home. Placing Isobel inside, she lingered on the front step and looked at Tiberius.

"We should probably go back - Or at least you should go back. Tell your father what happened."

"But what's going to happen with us?" He asked.

She smiled. "Does it matter?"

"Of course it does," he said and wrapped his hands around her waist. Sylvia suppressed a chuckle and grabbed his jacket, pulling him closer. Sliding her arms around his neck, she pressed her lips to his and just let those fireworks explode.

* * *

**A/N:** So... yeah, I failed at a cotton candy ending but when I got to it, I just... couldn't bring myself to write it. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it. I know I didn't wrap it up tightly and if I had made it longer, I could have made Isobel less of a flat, waif of a character who was raised to believe looks and birthing order (being the youngest) would get her everything she needed/wanted in life. Among other things...

If the bees threw you for a loop, here's an interesting fact: bees were considered by a lot of ancient cultures to be holy, in a way. Honey was the food of the gods (of course, it was also used to make mead). Bees represented the Merovingians and Napoleon on their emblems and even a part of Ancient Egypt. They are considered to represent immortality and reincarnation/rebirth. Although, to be honest, I just wanted Sylvia to be a beekeeper. The rest came as I wrote. Realized the potential mythological significance afterwards.

Much Love! -A.S. Lee


End file.
